


Angelic Assistance

by Eigon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cocoa and Sympathy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eigon/pseuds/Eigon
Summary: There was a discussion on Twitter about how Crowley was good with little kids, but Aziraphale was better with teenagers, who would come into the bookshop and sit down with a nice cup of cocoa to have a chat.This is one of those teenagers.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Angelic Assistance

It had been a mistake to come in here. She'd known that as soon as she walked through the door. No, she'd known that the first time she'd pressed her nose to the window, when the bookshop had been closed. She couldn't afford any of the books in here.  
But it was raining outside, and the shoulders of her thin jacket were already soaked through, so maybe it would be alright if she just browsed for a while. She balled up her hands in her pockets, so she wouldn't be tempted to touch, because there were books everywhere – not just on the shelves but on small tables and in piles on every flat surface. And they were beautiful, gleaming leather and gilt lettering....  
"Can I help you?"  
She jumped. She hadn't heard the bookseller come in, but there he was, in his long pale coat and his tartan bowtie, smiling at her.  
"Mm, just browsing, thanks," she mumbled, ducking her head.  
"Well, call me if you need any help," he said.  
She shuffled away from the central rotunda (there was an actual dome – you couldn't see it from outside). Maybe there'd be some cheap paperbacks in a corner somewhere....  
There was half a shelf of Penguin Classics near the end window. She forgot that she was keeping her hands in her pockets, and ran a finger along the spines. Beowulf, The Decameron, The Mabinogion, Tales of King Arthur, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight....  
She picked up Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and looked inside. The price, neatly penciled on the first page, was only £2. She could afford that, and then she could escape.... But it was still raining outside, and it felt safe in the bookshop.  
She picked the book up, and started browsing along the shelves. Books of prophesy – she'd heard of Nostradamus, but there were so many unfamiliar names. Joanna Southcott, Old Mother Shipton – there was even one by Christopher Columbus. Hadn't he discovered America or something? But it was in Spanish, so she couldn't tell if it was the same person or not.  
Then there were the bibles, big and black with metal clasps, in Latin and Greek and other languages as well as English – and she was getting closer to the till, and the bookseller was still there, doing some tidying (keeping an eye on her in case she stole something, probably), and she'd better pay for her book and go.  
She didn't want to leave this safe haven and go back to the real world.  
Undecided, she felt for the money in her pocket and held the coins in her fist.  
"Is everything all right?" The bookseller was standing at the other end of the little table she'd stopped at. He looked kind, and concerned, and she wasn't going to say anything, but it just came out. "Not really," she said, and she felt as if she wanted to cry.  
The bookseller patted her arm gently. "You look as if you need a nice hot mug of cocoa," he said. "Come into the back."  
And she followed him. One part of her brain was saying "Are you mad? Going off alone with a strange man?" but another part of her brain was saying "This is a safe place. You can trust him.... You can tell him anything."  
He sat her down on a comfortable sofa, shrouded with soft blankets, and she scrunched herself up into one corner. He pottered around the kitchen area behind her, and soon reappeared with a mug of steaming cocoa. It was a weird mug. It didn't have a handle – it had little angel wings instead. She wrapped both hands around it and sipped. It was very good cocoa, but she still wanted to cry.  
The bookseller sat down in an armchair to one side of her. "Now," he said, "suppose you tell me all about it?"  
And she did. Once she started talking, the floodgates opened, and it all came out. "I wanted to go to University," she said, "but people like us don't go to University. I'm scared of the loans, and nobody from our school's ever gone on to Uni, and mum's got no money, and she wants me to go out to work anyway, and there's only zero-hour contracts so that doesn't bring much in, and she thinks I'm weird because I like to read anyway...." and then she did start to sob, and felt the bookseller take the mug of cocoa out of her hands, and he held her hand.  
"I'm sorry...." she snuffled.  
""There's nothing to be sorry for," he said. "It's all right. Let it all out." A clean cotton handkerchief was pressed into her free hand, and she scrubbed at her face with it, and blew her nose.  
"There, now," the bookseller said. "What did you want to study, at University?"  
She shrugged. It didn't matter now, because she'd never be able to go. "History," she said at last. "We went on a school trip to Leeds Castle once, and it was fantastic, and I wanted to know everything, and...." She sighed. "It doesn't matter."  
"It most certainly does matter," he said. "You sit quietly and finish your cocoa. Take as long as you need."  
He went out into the main bookshop then. She could hear him talking to another customer. She held the mug until the contents were cold, and then she felt she really couldn't stay any longer.  
She shuffled out to the till. "I'd better pay for this," she mumbled, putting the two pound coins down. "Thank you." And she fled.

A few days later, she was the first to the front door when the postman called, so she saw the stiff, cream envelope with her name on it before her mum did. She slipped it into her coat pocket to look at later.  
The letterhead had the name of an educational charity she had never heard of, and the body of the letter.... She stared at it so hard the letters started to swim in front of her eyes. "You have been chosen to receive a bursary to Warwick University...."  
She didn't even know what a bursary was. She looked it up on the library computer as soon as she could get there. This was too good to be true. It had to be a scam or a joke or something. The letter was saying that this charity would pay for her to go to university – the course, and the bed and board and everything.  
She looked up the name of the charity. It had a website, but that didn't mean anything. Anybody could make a website. There was a phone number, and an email address, but she didn't trust those either.  
She looked up Warwick University. That was a real website, and there were contact details for the Admissions Department.  
It took her a little time to screw up the courage to call them, but when she told them her name, the secretary said: "Oh, yes, this year's Principality Foundation student. You're on the Medieval History course, aren't you?"  
They took her email address and sent her all the information about when the course started, and what she should do when she got to the University.  
She didn't tell her mum anything. She packed her bags in secret, and set off for the coach to Warwick while her mum was out at work.

Three years later:

It was a warm, sunny day, but she was wearing her Warwick University hoodie anyway. It seemed important.  
The bookshop was open, and this time she didn't creep through the door as if she didn't belong there. She had got used to belonging in spaces full of books.  
"Can I help you?" The bookseller looked just the same. She didn't expect him to remember her – she looked quite different from the last time she had been here.  
"Actually, yes," she said. "I'm looking for a book on Warwick Castle."  
"Oh, I'm sure we can find something suitable for you," he said. He led the way to a table piled high with books, sorted through them for a moment, and produced a book bound in red leather. "I think this might fit the bill," he said.  
She took it from him and leafed through. It had been published some time in the late nineteenth century, when the style had been for detailed line drawings breaking up the blocks of text. It was quite beautiful.  
She looked at the price. Fifteen pounds was quite reasonable for a book of this sort, but money was still tight until she got her first wages from her new job. She could skip lunch, and walk home instead of going on the Tube....  
"Do you have a particular interest in Warwick Castle, then?" the bookseller asked. "I can see you must be familiar with it, at least from the outside." He indicated her hoodie.  
She grinned. "I've come to thank you, really," she said.  
He gave her an enquiring look.  
"I came in here, three years ago, and – it's still really embarrassing, but I started crying and you gave me cocoa, and a few days after that I got a letter, and this charity I'd never heard of had paid for me to go to Warwick, and – I got a 2:1! And Warwick Castle are taking me on as a guide, talking to the visitors about the history, and if I do well there's a possibility of doing some research, and, well, it's my dream come true, and I wanted you to know."  
He beamed, and it was as if the sun had come out inside the shop. "I'm so glad, my dear," he said, "and – does your mother still think you're 'weird'?"  
"Oh, yes," she was still grinning. "But she came to the graduation ceremony, and saw me in my cap and gown, and she was so proud!"  
He patted her hand. "I do so like stories that end happily," he said.  
She dug in her pocket to get her card out to pay for the book.  
"Oh, no, my dear, I don't have one of those machines," he said.  
"I don't think I've got the cash," she said, scrabbling through her purse and coming out with a ten pound note. "I don't think I can make it up to fifteen."  
"Fifteen pounds?" he asked. "I think you must be mistaken, my dear." He opened the book at the first page, and the neatly penciled price clearly said £1.50. "You see, I had to do some repairs on the spine, so it's of no interest to collectors." She had been sure there had been nothing wrong with the spine before, but it was clear now that it had come loose and been glued back down.   
As he took the coins, he said: "I'm sure you'll do well at your new job, and I wish you every happiness."


End file.
